My Soul To Take
by Demosthenes23
Summary: Murdoch succumbs to a mysterious illness and faces his most sinister threat yet.
1. Unexpected sickness

Murdoch knew what he had done was right, or at least that's what he kept telling himself; _had_ to tell himself in order to get through the day. Sometimes following the honourable path in life meant giving up that which was desired the most, even if the pain it caused was all consuming, like a wildfire that engulfed a forest; never to be tamed or satisfied until it wreaked utter havoc, destroying everything it touched; burnt to a crisp and unrecognizable. Much like this, there was an inferno holding his heart hostage to it's every devilish whim, slowly devouring his already stunted emotions so that he could barely function anymore. But function he must, for he had a job to do and no one else could do it quite like he could. Of course, he'd never admit this out loud, for he was far too modest for that sort of self pride, it was vain and unseemly and not at all like a proper Catholic should act.

If there was one thing his mother taught him before her untimely death, it was that. He never forgot their time together and the lessons learned and so was forever shaped into the man he had become, or so he had thought. Murdoch had been as unyielding in his beliefs as the granite that made up the Canadian Shield. However, all of that carefully groomed correctness had slowly been chipped away at; his edges smoothed over until he was a new man. Everything had changed after he had met her, had loved her.

No, he wouldn't allow himself to think of such things. Those memories only gave the fire more fuel with which to scorch his already damaged heart. He felt like he had been teetering on the brink of an abyss for the past three months. By some miracle he had managed to avoid the plunge and complete breakage, something that took all his will power to sustain. As a result, he was constantly exhausted, more so than any other point in his life, including the death of his fiancée. All he wanted was a chance to rest and catch his breath. Maybe with a little more time he would. That was all he hoped for now.

With these thoughts in mind, he almost turned his bike around half way to the station house. Fleeing back home would be so much easier than facing her for the first time since her marriage to that odious man. At home he could get lost in the bottle again, as he had done so many times before during his stay in the Yukon. He stopped riding momentarily, and shook his head vigorously as if to clear that idea out of his mind. For who was he kidding? He _never_ took the easy way out of _anything_. He would make himself go, no matter what. The sooner he accepted the consequences of his actions, the better.

Parking his bike outside the precinct, he tugged on his vest to straighten it out and took off his hat so that he was holding it in his left hand. Then he took a moment to collect himself into the orderly man that everyone had come to know and admire. After one last deep breath he finally headed on in, forcing himself to smile.

As he made his way to his office, all the lads in the station approached him in order to shake his hand. They all had big grins across their faces. It was nice to be surrounded again by people who cared for him; he hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

Murdoch had a bit of trouble getting into his office because Crabtree had set a large plant in the doorway, for some mysterious reason. Then again, most of what Crabtree said or did was baffling to him. But he liked him all the same. Crabtree was like a beloved dog. He was trustworthy, loyal and kind and he always came running when called for.

Murdoch stood in the doorway for a second, just watching Crabtree fiddle with his typewriter. _Typical Crabtree to go breaking it_. Then Crabtree noticed him and quickly came over to embrace him like a son would a father, all the while exclaiming his joy at Murdoch's return. Soon he launched into a description of the case he had been working on but Murdoch paid him no mind. For the first time that morning, his mouth formed a real smile and he laughed quietly to himself. _Oh, Crabtree, how I missed your incessant babbling. _

Unfortunately, now was not the time to be happy, for he had a much more unpleasant matter to attend to. While he already knew it was pointless, he had to at least _try_ to do it, his conscience demanded that much of him. And so it was with a heavy heart that he entered his bosses office.

Brackenreid was the only one who appeared to not be happy at his return. As soon as he saw Murdoch, his brow furrowed deeply and he went to go make himself a drink. Murdoch closed the door behind him so that they could discuss his horrible deed in private.

Brackenreid took several gulps and then turned around to face him. In his usual brusk manner he said, "So you came back after all. I wasn't sure that you would. You were gone so long I thought you had taken up prospecting for good."

"I can't deny that there weren't certain charms to that lifestyle. It was uncomplicated and peaceful."

Brackrenreid eyed him closely and said, "Don't give me that bullocks, Murdoch. You and I both know that there was nothing _peaceful_ about your little trip." Murdoch said nothing but averted his gaze. "I expect you want to start working here again. Well, the fact is, we need you back, on the double. If anythings clear in this world, it's that Crabtree's no William Murdoch."

Ignoring his flattery and simultaneous put down of his protégé, he said, "Actually, sir, I wanted to discuss my situation." He took a deep breath for show and said, "I've had a lot of time to think about it and I've decided to confess my sins."

Brackenreid whirled around and glared at him. "You can't do it, Murdoch. It'd _ruin_ me. Hell, it'd ruin my family. I _lied_ for you, protected you. It's not an option. I can't _believe_ you'd even think so! If you need to confess so badly, go see a priest, or whatever it is you Catholic blokes do. You'll get no absolution here."

He responded exactly the way that he expected him to. Murdoch had already thought of all the repercussions of his actions. He knew that he could never reveal his crime to the chief of police, or many other innocents would be irrevocably tainted in the process. His conscience would just have to deal with it, somehow. He nodded his acquiescence to his boss and left the room.

Now for one last terrible idea. He knew he shouldn't go there but he just couldn't stop himself. It was like there was a magnet attached to his soul that was forever pulling him towards her and her to him; unavoidable like the laws of physics.

As he entered the morgue, his heart leapt inside his chest. Whether this reaction was caused more by joy than by fear, he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that the two emotions were overwhelming him. Therefore, he halted briefly before rounding the corner to where she undoubtedly would be; where he had seen her so many times before.

Yes, she was there. Even though her back was to him, he would recognize her anywhere. Her hair glimmered in the lighting like diamonds, at least he perceived it so. He wanted so badly to call out to her but when he tried, found his mouth had gone as dry as sand and was therefore unable to make a sound. So he just stood there and gazed lovingly at her for as long as he dared. She would most likely notice him at some point and he wasn't sure he could handle getting closer to her than he already was. This was a worse idea than he had previously thought, he _had _to leave. It was imperative that he got out of there before she spotted him. He just couldn't deal with this right now, he only foolishly thought that he could.

In his mad rush to get out of there, his shoes squeaked on the tiled floor. The sound was deafening to him and his heart felt like it plummeted into his stomach. He closed his eyes, grit his teeth and prayed that she hadn't heard. Unfortunately, he would have no such luck. For when he opened them, she was staring directly at him. She looked extremely startled to see him there. However, neither of them made a move but neither of them broke eye contact either. They remained this way for several moments. Finally Murdoch manned up and walked over to where she sat. He would have given anything to avoid this confrontation right now but he knew it was going to happen sooner or later, and apparently fate had deemed the former to be just. It serves him right for his past crime.

"Doctor," he said awkwardly. "You're looking well."

Following suit, she didn't use his Christian name but only just managed it. "Wil- Detective," she stammered. Regaining her composure she continued with, "How nice to see you've come back. Did you enjoy your sabbatical?"

He was confused momentarily but then understood. Of course this was what Brackenreid had told everyone. Why else would he have gone off for three months? He hoped that she didn't think it was purely because of her. But he wasn't going to ask and there was no way he could tell her the truth anyways. So he let the matter die in his mind as soon as it formed.

"Very much, indeed. It was refreshing to have some time to myself."

"I can imagine," she said softly. Her look made him think that she didn't buy his story for a second. However, in the next instant it was gone and she was talking normally again. "Isn't it strange that at the moment you gained so much freedom," she laughed, "I myself lost it."

She was trying to be funny, of course. Like she always did when the situation was unbearably awkward. "Ah, yes, your marriage. Let me congratulate you now on that." He took her hand in his and began to shake it. Her touch was so warm and familiar that he wished he could hold on to it forever, but as it was, his hand had already lingered for longer than was appropriate. Dropping her hand quickly he said, "I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner but-"

"It's okay. You don't need to explain, I quite understand."

_Oh, no you don't, Julia. You don't understand at all._

She must have taken his silence as confirmation that her suspicions were right, for she now changed the topic. "So, what can I do for you today, detective?"

_Leave Darcy and marry me._

"Oh, um, nothing really. I just wanted to stop by and say hello. I don't actually have any cases at the moment."

Smiling, she said, "That's what I thought. I didn't think there were any dead bodies that I was unaware of." Then she winked and said, "Well, I'm sure there _are_ but you know what I mean."

He smiled politely at her joke like he always did. Turning slightly as if to leave, he found that he couldn't. To his horror, he was rooted to the spot! Little did he know, his soul magnet was the cause of his woes. The more he tried to struggle against it's pull, the stronger it became and the more he perspired. _Now_ what was he supposed to do?

Julia stared at him for a little while and then said, "Is something the matter? You don't look well."

He tried to say that everything was fine but no words came out. _Oh, no! My voice isn't working again!_

When he didn't respond she looked at him with growing concern. "William," she said, "Why aren't you answering me? What's wrong?" She stood up and felt his forehead. "Oh, dear! You're burning up!" She grabbed his hand and said, "Here, take my seat while I go get a thermometer to check your temperature. I fear that it could be dangerously high."

Once he was sitting, she headed off in search of a clean thermometer, preferably one that she didn't use on dead bodies. However, it was at this point that he began to feel extremely woozy. And so it was that within seconds of leaving him, he collapsed off of the chair and landed noisily on the ground.

"William!" she exclaimed as she came rushing back to him.

Her perfect face hovered over his as he passed out and all went black.


	2. There's a Murdoch on the loose!

When Murdoch next awoke, he was extremely disoriented and his head was killing him. So much so that it felt like a horse had repeatedly kicked his skull until it had split open. He placed a hand to his forehead as if that would stop the world from spinning and found that there was a damp cloth there. Next he noticed that his body was freezing even though he was under several layers of blankets. On top of this, he felt very weak, like he hadn't eaten in days. Plus his mouth was extraordinarily dry. A severe fever would explain his symptoms so he decided that was what he suffered from.

Even though the pain became almost unbearable when he tried to remember what had happened, he still forced himself to. How had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember, he was at the morgue. He thought he had spoken with Julia but he couldn't be certain. Everything was all so cloudy. He hated it that he didn't know what was going on, after all, it was his business to know things.

Therefore, even in his delirious state of mind, he felt compelled to play detective. So he started to observe his surroundings. He found that he was in a small room he didn't recognize. It was sparsely furnished to be sure but there was a table with some white bowls and cloths on it. There was also a wooden chair next to the bed in which he lay, but it was vacant. Judging by the position of the sun, he estimated it to be around four in the afternoon. None of this was helpful in solving the mystery of his whereabouts. Mind you, the cross above the door told him he was likely in a hospital. Which made perfect sense given his condition.

Of course, being who he was, he wanted to know for sure, so he decided to go find someone. However, when he attempted to get out of the bed, the movement sent cascades of agony throughout his entire body, stopping him instantly and making him puke. Even though it had been more of a dry heave than anything else, he was still happy that he had managed to do that over the side of the bed. _Maybe that wasn't the smartest idea after all._ He would stay put for a while longer and then try again.

As more time passed, the pain in his head lessened until it became only a dull throb. Consequently, his mind began to clear. Slowly but steadily, he was able to remember what had happened. Not that it explained anything. He still didn't know _why_ it had happened. For some reason he had been unable to leave the morgue when he endeavored to. This issue vexed him greatly because he couldn't come up with a rational explanation. And _everything_ could be explained with logic. Supernatural events didn't exist. Anytime his cases seemed to be inclined in that direction, the answer was always something logical. One just needed to know where to look.

Before he could ruminate on this topic some more, the door to his room opened and a kindly looking elderly woman entered. She appeared to be a nun, which all but confirmed his suspicions of where he was. He was in the Toronto General Hospital.

When she saw that he was awake, she first looked surprised but then smiled serenely at him. "I'm glad to see you have awoken, my son. We had feared the worst. You were not responding to the treatment at all."

This was distressing news to hear. He tried to respond but all he managed to do was make a croaking sound.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said. "Let me get you something to drink right away."

She left but it was only momentarily. When she came back she had a big glass of water in her hand. Murdoch had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life. If he had been capable of producing spit at that moment, he would have salivated profusely. Luckily for her, she was very observant, noticed the tiny barf puddle in time and avoided it. He almost grabbed the glass out of her hand but managed to restrain himself. Many greedy gulps later, he felt somewhat normal again. While he had been drinking, she had removed the cloth and felt his forehead. Apparently she was pleased because she smiled widely. With the soiled cloth in hand, she next went over to the table and deposited it there. Then she retrieved a clean one and began soaking it in one of the bowl's water.

"How long have I been here?" he asked, his voice still a little raspy. He had the sneaking suspicion that it was much longer than he originally thought.

"Four days, my child. I have never seen a fever act as strongly as it did in you. It's a miracle that you've recovered so quickly." She came back over and placed the fresh cloth on his forehead.

"I do feel pretty good right now. So the medication must have worked after all."

"It's quite possible that you are correct. Or maybe the Lord heard our prayers and answered them. Maybe he deemed that it was not your time yet."

He nodded politely at that.

"What caused my fever?"

"We ran several tests but were unable to determine the cause of your illness."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear, how could they not know? _Any_ explanation would have been better than none at all. If Julia had run tests, he was sure that she would have located its cause. Unfortunately, not everyone was Julia. In fact, there was no one else quite like her.

"When can I go?"

Narrowing her eyes slightly, she said, "You are still unwell. It would be prudent to keep you here for another night. However, I believe you should stay here for at least another twenty-four hours for observation. We have no way of knowing if the fever will return, especially since your case is so strange."

It wasn't in his nature to argue with people, let alone a nun, so he let the matter go. Besides, she knew what was best for his health better than he did. Still...while staying another day wouldn't have been a big deal to others, it was to him. It meant he would have nothing to do for all that time and therefore would be confined to his innermost thoughts. Which is exactly where he didn't want to be right now. That's why he came back to Toronto. The murder investigation he had conducted in the Yukon had reminded him how much he missed doing his job. A large part of it involved keeping his thoughts focused on the puzzle at hand, so that they could rarely wander to the battered corners of his mind. He _needed _that distraction once again. But how could he work a case if he was trapped here? As a result, he decided then and there to sneak out at night so he could go to work in the morning. Before his nurse left, he remembered to ask her something else that had slipped his mind. "Can you please tell me who brought me in?" He already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.

"It was a woman, about your age. She stayed with you for several hours before she was called away. A constable came and told her that a body was found." She tsked loudly. "What a terrible business for a young lady to be in."

"Did she come back?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear." He must have looked extremely disappointed at this news for she said, "I'm sure she had a good reason. Your sweetheart wouldn't have abandoned you like that unless she did."

"She's not my sweetheart. She's married." The nurse appeared to be mildly shocked by this information. "What made you think that?"

"It's just...I saw the way she was looking at you and I just assumed...forgive my impertinence."

Her words made his heart hurt so badly that it was all he could do to hold back the tears. "No," he said quietly, "don't apologize. I'm sure it was an easy mistake to make."

She gave him a pitying look and then left the room. Only a small span of time elapsed before she came back carrying a tray laden with food and more drink.

"Thank you for bringing this but I'm not hungry," he said.

"You have to eat to regain your strength. Your body was severely weakened by the fever. Please at least _try_ to eat something."

He sighed, picked up the spoon and began to slurp the tomato soup, for it was still too hot to eat outright. Although his original intent was to only pretend to eat so she would leave him alone, he soon found that the small amount of food ingested had awakened his digestive system up with a fury. His stomach growled hungrily and so he began to devour everything in sight. The nurse smiled and exited the room again.

* * *

Murdoch waited until midnight to make a break for it. He had never done anything like this before and consequently felt guilty about his actions. The nurse had been so nice to him and this is how he repaid her? It was too late for remorse now. He had already changed back into his clothes and was slowly making his way down the stairway out of there. He hadn't put his shoes on yet so he could avoid making any sound. So far this tactic had worked marvelously, for he hadn't been caught yet, even though he had been very close to the patrolling nurses on more than one occasion. Finally he had reached the main floor, undetected. All he had to do now was find an unlocked door and he was home free. The first few were no goes but eventually he found one that was somewhat ajar. He put his shoes on and opened the door fully.

Suddenly someone behind him yelled 'hey!' in the distance. He didn't stop to see who it was, he just started running away as fast as his legs and weakened state would let him. Which as it turned out, was not particularly fast. However, it was quick enough to outrun whoever was behind him, assuming anyone was _actually_ chasing him. He didn't think so because he couldn't hear anyone. But it was hard to tell above his own heartbeat, breathing and footfalls if this was truly the case. While he could just look behind him to know for sure, he wasn't going to. That's how fleeing suspects _always_ fell. When they tried to judge their progress, they just ended up tripping on something in front of them. He couldn't count the number of times this had been the reason he had caught a perp because there were just too many.

After half a minute of sprinting, he was completely spent and had to stop, regardless if someone was right behind him or not. Now he looked back and was able to confirm that there was no one there. He had been running away like a fool when there wasn't even any danger of being caught. Oh well, at least no one else had been privy to his idiocy. At least, that's what he thought until he noticed a couple staring at him strangely as they strolled by.

_C'est la vie._

* * *

The next morning he awoke stiffly. This was something he attributed more to his jail break romp than to any lingering affliction caused by his rampant fever. Perhaps that was a faulty assessment but he didn't care. He wasn't going to allow any vestigial affects of his illness prevent him from going in to work today. So he dressed in a fresh suit, slicked back his hair and was on his way.

* * *

"Good morning, George," Murdoch said as he neared his desk.

Crabtree looked up from his typewriter and smiled warmly. He was very disheveled and judging by the bags under his eyes hadn't gotten much sleep in recent days. "Oh, sir," he responded, wearily. "It's good to see you out and about. Dr. Ogden told us what happened. I stopped by myself to see how you were doing." Here he looked guilty and rubbed his neck. "Well, truth be told, I _had _to go in order to fetch the doctor. But I wanted to stop by again but just didn't have the chance. There's been a slew of murders recently and-"

Murdoch smiled and waved his hand. "It's quite all right, George. What do you have for me today?"

Crabtree handed him several folders. Murdoch flipped through them and his eyes popped. _There must be at least eight murders here! So this is why Julia didn't come back, not because she thought it was improper. _At least, he hoped that wasn't the reason.

Crabtree must have noticed his reaction because he said, "I told you there were a lot."

"Do we have any suspects yet?"

Crabtree frowned. "Not a one, sir."

"Are any of the murders connected?"

"Yes," said Crabtree. "They all are." Murdoch raised his eyebrows. "Well, at least I _think_ they are. But it's all very strange."

"Oh. How so?"

"All the victims died in different ways." Crabtree looked off into the distance.

Murdoch waited for him to continue and when he didn't said, "Why do you think they are connected if the murders are all different?" When this failed to get his attention, he snapped in front of his face.

"Wha-, sorry, sir. I was just thinking about a plot line for my next book. You see there's this ghost who-"

"_Focus_, George. The _cases_?"

"Right, right. What I meant to say before was that even though they all died differently, there was something similar about all of them too."

"Which was?"

"There was no evidence left behind at any of the crime scenes."

Murdoch was so bewildered that he didn't respond at first. In all his years on the force, he had never come across anything remotely as strange as what Crabtree had just said. How could someone be such a versatile killer but at the same time never leave _any_ clues? The obvious answer was that they were dealing with a professional. Most likely an assassin. But from what he had glimpsed in the case notes, _none_ of the victims would be likely targets. They were all just regular folk. So why would anyone want them killed? And why kill them all over such a short span of time? Doing it this way all but guaranteed that the connection between them would be made. Why would anyone want this to happen? Clearly he was missing something important and would need to investigate further. It was at this point that his head started to throb but he refrained from touching his forehead, lest Crabtree pick up on his distress. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to check out early after all. It looked like he was getting much more than he bargained for.

"You're sure that there was no evidence at all? Absolutely positive?"

"One hundred percent. We combed the areas at least three times a piece but came up empty handed every single time."

Regardless of what Crabtree said, he would need to take a look for himself. After all, detective Murdoch was renowned for seeing things that no one else did.


	3. Homicidal Tendencies

"All right, George," said Murdoch as they made their way to the nearest crime scene. "I want you to tell me everything you know."

"It's not much, sir."

"Tell me anyways."

"Okay, well, for starters, there's been two murders every day." Murdoch had been ill for four days. This would add up to the eight bodies they had discovered. "Some of the bodies have been found in out of the way locations. And the rest have been in quite prominent areas, that a lot of people pass through."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"There was one, sir, but by the time they got there, it was too late. They only saw him as he turned the corner and so didn't get a good enough look to identify him."

Not what he wanted to hear. "Please continue, George."

"None of the bodies had any defensive wounds on them, suggesting that they were either drugged first or that they knew their assailant."

He didn't like the sound of that either. It meant that there was probably no evidence on any of the bodies as well. How on earth was he supposed to catch this person if he wasn't leaving any clues?

"Which one is it?"

"Neither, sir," he said sighing.

"How can that be, George?"

"I don't know but I have a theory."

_Not another one of your theories._

"Maybe, he's a ninja."

"A ninja, George?"

"Yes, sir. They're masters of stealth. Maybe he snuck up on all his victims unawares."

"All of them, George? There's been eight murders so far."

"Why not, sir? It makes as much sense as anything else does in this case."

"Fine. What else?"

"They've all been killed expertly. This person knows what he's doing."

"You're sure it's one person doing all this?"

"Dr. Ogden is sure." That was good enough for him.

"What about the victims? Were they all men or all women?"

"A mixture, sir. There's been five men and three women, so far."

"Are there any connections between them?"

"As far as all the station houses are concerned, there aren't."

_Of course they were all coordinating together, why wouldn't they?_

"What steps have we taken to apprehend the suspect?"

"We've been doing sweeps for suspicious characters, specifically anyone who has recently come into town. We've already brought in several lurkers. But we couldn't get anything out of them and we had no evidence to hold them with. We've also had constables pulling double duty on the night patrols but haven't had any luck with that either. So I'm afraid that we're still at square one."

"What did Dr. Ogden determine the murder weapons to be? Anything distinctive?"

"Yes, sir. Some of them were hardware tools, but there was also a fork and a pair of scissors and a piece of glass."

"How odd, George." It was seeming increasingly unlikely that the murderer was an assassin. But he wanted to avoid thinking of the alternative for as long as possible. He wanted to explore all avenues before he went down that road again.

"I know, sir."

"Have you located any of the murder weapons?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Did you compile a list of the hardware weapons and show it to the hardware store owners?"

"Yes, sir. None of them recalled anyone purchasing more than two of the items. And none of those descriptions are similar, so we know he didn't go around to different stores in order to get them all."

"Tell me, George, did you happen to use the UV ray box at all?"

Crabtree looked hurt at his lack of faith. "Of course, sir. When we couldn't find any evidence, we checked for hidden clues."

"And?"

"There weren't any."

_Of course._ "What else?"

"That's it, sir. You know as much as I do now."

Murdoch looked at him incredulously for a few moments and then gazed straight ahead. He remained in brooding silence until they arrived at the scene of the crime.

* * *

_ This is unbelievable! _

Murdoch had just visited the last crime scene and to his dismay had come up as empty handed as Crabtree. Could someone be that meticulous that they didn't leave any evidence behind, ever? Of course it was possible, just highly unlikely. The only other explanation he could come up with was that these _weren't_ the actual crime scenes. Maybe the victims had been killed somewhere else and dumped in each of the other locations? However, as far as he could tell, this wasn't the case. There was absolutely no indication of this at any of the scenes. It was as if their bodies had just dropped from the sky, like their deaths were the act of God. Nonetheless, he wouldn't believe that this was the answer. Realistically, how could he? So what was he missing? For now he was at his wits end and would need to try a different approach. He had purposely avoided it until he absolutely had to go there again. But go he must.

* * *

"Doctor," he said amiably as he entered the morgue. However, once he caught sight of what lay ahead, his demeanor changed drastically and he became much more somber. The room was _filled_ with corpses, more so than he had ever seen there before. He had been so focused on keeping his cool when next he saw her that it had completely left his mind to expect this. The bodies were so tightly packed that he found it difficult to make his way over to her. To make matters worse, some of the older ones had begun to give off a foul stench and the smell almost knocked him out. How could she stand it?

"William!" exclaimed Julia, beaming. Her arms were covered in blood up to her elbows. She appeared even more worn out than Crabtree had in the morning. She must have been working non-stop on examining all the bodies. "I'm so glad you're feeling better. You had me quite worried."

"I'm sorry," he said. It came out sounding like he had a cold because he was pinching his nose closed so that he would remain standing. "It looks like you've had plenty to deal with without me adding to the mix."

"Nonsense." She averted her gaze and said quietly, almost to herself, so that he had to strain to hear, "Even though things turned out the way they have, I will always care for you, William. I won't have you apologizing for that."

He didn't know how to respond to that so he didn't respond at all. He tried his hardest to remain impassive but it was no good. His face contorted into a grimace at her words.

"William?" she said anxiously. "Are you okay? Has your fever returned?"

He decided he would try using her own tactic to salvage the situation; he would make a joke of it. "Have no fear, Julia. I haven't lost my ability to speak today." And then for good measure he forced a laugh out.

She seemed taken aback by his reaction and giggled nervously.

_Damn it! What a stupid idea! I just made things worse!_

"Ahem," said a voice from behind Murdoch. He turned around to find a young woman standing there. Unlike everyone else he had seen today, she didn't look the least bit tired. _Ah, the joys of youth_.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Oh, not at all, Emily," said Julia awkwardly. "Allow me to introduce Detective Murdoch. Dr. Grace here is my protégé. She's been very helpful these past few days. Without her, there's no way I could have kept up with all the autopsies."

Emily smiled mischievously as they shook hands. "I've heard great things about you, detective. I hope you can live up to them. From what I understand, the constabulary is floundering. Apparently you're the only one with half a brain."

Julia gasped and exclaimed, "Emily!"

"It's fine, Julia. She didn't mean anything by it."

"Julia?" Emily murmured, eyebrows raised.

"Anyways," said Julia, wanting to quickly change the topic, "why don't you tell the Detective your theory? I'm still finishing up with this body but I should be done momentarily and then I'll join you."

_Another theory? _ These seemed to be replacing the clues in this investigation. Could he really blame them though?

Even with his nose pinched shut, he was beginning to feel light headed from the fumes. He wondered if his extreme sensitivity to the smell was due to the fact that he wasn't quite in tip top shape yet. So he said, "Before we get started, do you mind if we remove ourselves from this area?"

"Of course," Emily said, eyes laughing.

They headed over to Julia's office. Murdoch felt instantly relieved when he released his nostrils, as he had been pinching them so hard that his nose was now sore. As well, his mind was less cloudy away from all the stink.

"You're going to think me very foolish when I tell you my theory, detective, but just hear me out. Okay?"

Murdoch nodded that he was all ears and gestured for her to proceed.

"I think we have a serial killer on the loose."

_No, it can't be! _It was just as he had feared.

Murdoch was disillusioned with this idea for obvious reasons. It had only been three years since the last time he had dealt with a serial killer. To have another one here so soon after, causing far more havoc than the previous one was almost too much to bear. To make matters worse, there was no clear connection between any of the victims. They didn't follow any expected pattern besides the number killed every day. How was he to proceed if she was correct?

When he didn't object she continued, "I know what you're thinking. Preposterous! This person doesn't even kill the same way every time. Besides which, we've never seen anything close to this magnitude before, especially when you take into consideration the _rate_ at which they've been killed. Even Jack the Ripper took much more time than this man. For some reason, this fellow is in a hurry to display his handiwork. Like he has something to prove. Either that or he _wants_ to be caught. Think about it for a moment. What if somewhere deep down inside, he's tired of feeling the way he does and so decided to try and get caught by killing so frequently?"

This notion was unsettling to him because it was very reminiscent of the last serial killer he had come into contact with. All he said was, "Did you study psychology in college, Dr. Grace?"

"No. I just do a lot of reading in my spare time. So what do you think, detective?"

"What you said makes a certain amount of sense but I have one major problem with it."

"Oh? Do tell."

"If he wanted to be caught so badly, why would he leave no evidence behind at any of the crime scenes?"

Emily looked shell shocked at this news. "No evi- You mean, there wasn't _anything_?"

"No, absolutely nothing I'm afraid."

"Damn! And I was so sure!"

"It's quite all right, Dr. Grace. You couldn't possibly have known unless you had been conducting the investigation yourself." Julia appeared in the doorway at this point. He turned to her and said, "George already informed me that you believe one person killed everyone. I didn't get him to elaborate though. Would you be so kind as to do that now?"

To his annoyance, Dr. Grace answered instead. "It wasn't obvious at first glance, far from it. But yesterday when we explored the _way _in which all the wounds were inflicted, it _became_ obvious to us."

"Yes," said Julia. "He kills with a such a deliberate purpose that one can't help but notice it. As well, there's never even a trace of hesitation in any of the injuries. And he always targets critical areas that cause the victims to die instantly, or at least painlessly."

_A compassionate serial killer? _Or at least someone who was familiar with human anatomy.

Murdoch considered everything that had been said. If it was someone killing indiscriminately, a serial killer would fit much better than an assassin killing people who had no reason to be targeted. However, he had never heard of a serial killer behaving the way that this one was. Everything appeared to be completely random, there was no logic anywhere. It was then that he made an unsettling connection, one that he should have made earlier. Harland Orgill had killed eight victims in every city he had went to. Was this some sort of bizarre copycat? Why was this number so significant to these type of killers? Had they missed their chance to catch him? Was he going to flee now?

"Why didn't you discover this earlier?" he asked, more harshly than he meant to.

"Look around you detective," said Emily brashly, "we've been rather busy. It was only yesterday that we finally had a bit of time to breath."

"Forgive me. Say you are correct, Dr. Grace. Say we are dealing with a serial killer." He shared a look with Julia. He could see how frightening this idea was to her. After all, she killed the last one they had come into contact with. "In your professional opinion, is it likely that this is his first time going on a killing spree?" He already knew the answer but wanted confirmation, just to be sure.

"Not likely at all, detective," said Emily. "This was clearly a practiced hand. There's no way he's never killed before this."

"She's right," said Julia in a strained voice. "Whoever is behind this has been doing this for a very long time."

As perverse as it may seem, this was actually good news. In fact, it could well end up being the thing that breaks the case. For if he's been at this a long time, it likely meant that there was a trail to follow. And if he could find the beginning of that trail, maybe he could find the culprit. Only God knew how many more bodies this would uncover.


	4. The beginning of the Trail

After going through all the case notes, he positively came to a conclusion.

"A serial killer?" Brackenreid said, disbelieving and shaking his head. "You've got to be kidding me! I can't handle this again, Murdoch. I just can't. You must be mistaken. There's got to be another explanation. They're just so rare that I can't believe another ones' fallen into our laps."

"I'm well aware that they aren't the most common type of killer out there but I think in this case, it fits."

His boss studied him for several seconds and then took a sip of his scotch to steady his nerves. He looked like he had been to hell and back. There was a nervous tick playing in his left eye every few seconds. The strain of this case had severely wore him out.

"You're sure though?"

"As sure as I can be at this stage of the investigation."

"Bloody hell, Murdoch!" After another slurp he said as calmly as he could, "What do you need?"

"Time. I need to see if there are any records of mysterious, unsolved killings like this anywhere else in the world. I'll probably need to go back several years, possibly even decades earlier in order to find a trail."

Brackenreid looked at him like he was crazy, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"But that could take _forever_! And besides which, don't you think we'd have heardabout something like _this_ before, Murdoch?"

"Not necessarily. This killer is extremely versatile. For all we know he changes tactics in each new area that he decides to terrorize next. There appears to be no rhyme or reason to anything he does. He just appears to enjoy killing."

"Use as many lads as you need to get to the bottom of this. I know they're all exhausted but don't feel bad about pushing them. It can't be helped, this is too important. I want to catch this bloody bastard before he strikes again! Though I don't have much hope of this seeing as he's been killing so bloody often! He's making a mockery of the constabulary, Murdoch! The press is having a field day! The public is terrified!" Murdoch didn't respond. "Nothing to say? Oh, bloody well off with you then!"

He would have to stall his plans to investigate any records, for at that very moment a constable burst through the doors and yelled, "There's been another one!"

Crabtree grimaced at the news but didn't appear to be the least bit surprised. Then they both ran over to the constable and he led the way.

* * *

They found her in a dead end alleyway, far away from prying eyes, which was ironic because her own eyes were wide and staring. Murdoch crossed himself as he approached the body. There was an object protruding from her right ear and a trickle of blood had formed a small pool beneath it. Already this crime scene was different than the others. It was the first time the killer had left a weapon behind. When he was closer, he was able to determine that it was a screwdriver with a dark red handle. Other than this, she didn't appear have any defensive wounds, just like all the other victims. But he would need to wait for Julia's expert opinion before making any concrete conclusions.

This was Murdoch's first chance to investigate a scene with an actual body in it. He wondered if maybe somehow this would allow him to see something that he hadn't seen before. So he carefully observed the body and it's relation to the surrounding area. Did she look like she belonged there?

_Yes. _She was exactly the sort of person who would live in the area, maybe even in one of the buildings surrounding the alleyway. Was the body positioned strangely in any way? _No. _She looked like she had simply fallen backwards after her death. Was there anything at all odd about her? _No._

It was as he expected. The weapon was the only thing that would hold any clues. So he focused intently on it, crouching down to get a better look. It wasn't apparent at first glance because of the colour of the screwdriver's handle but it was definitely there.

"George!" he cried.

He came running over from the middle-aged man that he had been questioning.

"What is it, sir? Have you found something?"

"I believe so. Do you see this blood drop here?"

He was pointing to the top side of the screwdriver's handle.

"Yes, sir," he said. "What about it?"

"It doesn't follow the expected blood spatter pattern. In fact, it's completely out of place. It couldn't be sitting in this position because the killer's hand would have been in the way. This means that the killer purposely put this drop of blood here."

Crabtree frowned and said, "What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure, yet, George. But the killer appears to be giving us our first clue."

* * *

"What are your findings about the body, doctor?" asked Murdoch.

"It's just as you suspected," she answered. "She suffered no other injuries than the fatal blow. This is definitely the work of the same killer."

"And what about the blood drop?" he inquired, ever hopeful.

"I'm sorry, detective," she said sadly, "there's nothing unusual about it. At least, I can't determine if there is or not, as it was far too small a sample to do any real tests with. It's definitely human blood, but that's all I can tell you."

He tried not to let his disappointment show. "Thank you, doctor." He was about to leave the morgue and then thought better of it. She was so forlorn looking that he desperately wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. He settled for the latter. "Don't worry, Julia. I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of this. I promise I'll catch this man."

"Thank you, William," she said, smiling weakly. "I needed to hear that."

* * *

After dusting the screwdriver handle for finger marks and determining that there weren't any, he was left with no other choice. It was time to begin the search.

* * *

Five hours later, Crabtree exclaimed, "I think I've got something, sir!"

All the lads looked up, bleary eyed. Some were startled badly as they had fallen asleep. But none of them bothered to go over there because they were too exhausted to move.

Murdoch stuck his head out of his office and said, "Come in here, George, so we can discuss it in private and avoid distracting the others."

Crabtree did as he was told and closed the door behind him. He was holding a newspaper clipping in his hand. The date said Wednesday, April 16th, 1897.

"What have you, George?"

"Well, sir, I've just been reading this rather interesting article about a series of unexplained killings in Philadelphia." Murdoch gestured for him to continue. "Apparently there were nine people drowned in mysterious ways."

"Why were they mysterious?"

"There was no water anywhere near the victims."

"Were they killed somewhere else then, and then dumped at the locations they were found?"

"The article's not too clear on that."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, sir," said Crabtree smiling. "There was never any evidence left behind."

"Very good, George," said Murdoch, also smiling. "I believe you have just found the beginning of the trail."

* * *

Murdoch was chasing the suspect in near darkness. With every stride he gained a little ground. It was only a matter of time before he caught up. Finally he grabbed his shoulder and tackled him to the ground. Turning him over, he gasped at what he found. The man had no face! Where there should have been eyes, there were only two blood drops. As if this wasn't unsettling enough, his whole head was bathed in the glow of ultraviolet light, revealing hidden writing.

It said, "You'll never find me, detective. Not before it's too late."

Then he produced the same screwdriver that had killed the most recent victim and plunged it into one of his own blood drop eyes. The man screamed hideously and then fell silent. Murdoch was relieved that it was over. Suddenly the man grabbed him by the right shoulder, pulled out the screwdriver and spoke directly into Murdoch's mind saying "Your turn, detective."

The screwdriver point was just about to pierce him in the ear when he awoke abruptly at his desk.

He must have screamed because Crabtree came bursting into his office and said, "Is everything all right, sir?"

"Everything is fine, George. It was just a bad dream, that's all."

"Was there a giant spider, sir? I've been having this recurring one about a giant spider that-"

"_George_," he said irritatedly. "I'd like a moment to myself if you wouldn't mind."

"Sure thing, sir," he said as he closed the door.

_What a bizarre dream._

As much as he tried to shake it, he couldn't quite seem to. The image of the man plunging the screwdriver into his blood drop eye kept playing over and over again. All of a sudden, he thought he knew what it meant.

_Maybe the blood drop we found belonged to the killer himself? But how does this help us?_

A few minutes past and his thoughts turned to the hidden writing.

_Is it possible that Crabtree was wrong? _

There was only one way to know for sure.

* * *

"Sir, I already told you, there's nothing here."

Murdoch paid him no mind and began shining the day light in a box (with the UV filter) around the first crime scene. After scanning part of the ground, he came across a dark area. This is where the victim had bled out. He crouched down over it and was surprised to see another blood drop there that had definitely not been there before. It was clearly separate from the rest of the pool.

_Curious._

He next began working his way across the wall nearby. And lo and behold, there _was_ something there! At shoulder height, right smack in the middle, a number appeared. It was a brightly illuminated number one.

Murdoch swung the box around so that it was illuminating George's face. He appeared astonished by this revelation. "I swear, sir," he said pointing at the wall, "that wasn't there before!"

"It's quite all right, George. I believe you."

"But how did this happen, sir?"

"Our killer must have come back and put this here sometime after you searched the area."

"What does the number_ mean,_ sir? Why would he need to tell us that this is the first victim? We already _knew_ that."

"I don't know, George, but let's go investigate the other scenes before the sun comes up."

It turned out that _all _of the crime scene's had an extra drop of blood and a number. At first the numbers appeared to only confirm Crabtree's suspicion; that the killer was just counting up the victims. But once they reached the fourth scene, they knew that this wasn't the case. There was a number one again.

When they came to the most recent crime scene, there was something additionally strange about it. As well as the single blood drop on the ground, (which he noted was at about the same location as it would have been on the screwdriver), there was a whole circle of them at evenly spaced intervals on the wall. They had all run down a bit but the number inside was still clearly visible. It was the number six.

As they made their way back to the station, with the sun rising directly ahead, they discussed their recent findings.

"Do you have any idea now, sir?"

"No, George, I'm still just as much in the dark as you."

"Then why are you smiling, sir?"

"Because, George, I believe our killer is finally finished."

"What makes you say that, sir?"

"There was only one murder yesterday. It breaks the pattern. Maybe nine is his magic number."

"I see what you mean. He certainly made a big show of the ninth crime scene. Like it was his grand finale."

Murdoch nodded. There was silence for several minutes and then, "George, I think I've got it!"

He began running back to the station with George hot on his heels.


	5. Room 9

Murdoch began explaining his findings to Brackenreid and Crabtree. Behind him was the chalkboard and on that was a list of all the weapons used to kill the victims, starting with the first crime scene and working their way up. They were as follows: scissors, fork, axe, glass, mallet, knife, hammer, pliers and screwdriver. Beside each weapon was the number that had been found at each crime scene.

"It was the final crime scene that helped me figure this out. If the killer hadn't been quite so elaborate in his design, I probably never would have solved this." He left out the fact that his dream had given him some inspiration as well.

"What are you trying to show us, Murdoch? If you don't mind, I'd like to get on with this so I can catch the bloody bastard!"

"I believe that the numbers correspond to a position in each of the weapons' names." Crabtree and Brackenreid shared a look but didn't interrupt. "If I'm right, it means the first letter is an S." He wrote it on the board in a third column. Then he proceeded to write out all the remaining letters. The end product spelled SOEGTNALD.

"But it doesn't mean anything, sir," said Crabtree confusedly.

"Quite right, George. But if we rearrange the letters like so" -he just rewrote them in a different order in a fourth column- "we get this instead."

"Gladstone," said Brackenreid. "As in the Gladstone Hotel?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Isn't this rather far-fetched, Murdoch?" asked Brackenreid.

"There's only one way to find out, sir. We need to go there."

"Have you considered the possibility that this could be a trap?" said Brackenreid. "Or that he's purposely wasting our time with meaningless clues so that we're busy chasing our tails while he's free to kill again, undisturbed?"

"Of course, I have, sir," said Murdoch. "But we don't have much of a choice, now do we?"

"No, I guess we bloody well don't. Come on, let's get going then. But first, Crabtree, pay a visit to the armory. I want to be properly prepared when we see what's in store for us."

* * *

They entered the hotel with guns at the ready. Needless to say, this frightened quite a few people, especially since it was so early in the morning. A few of the women in the lobby even screamed out loud. The hotel clerk looked rather shaken as well but he sounded calm enough when he spoke.

"What can I do for you, constables?"

"I'm afraid we're going to have to search the premises, sir," said Brackenreid.

"Whatever for, sir?"

"That's none of your concern," said Brackenreid. "This is official police business and I suggest you co-operate fully."

"Of course," he responded. "But before you go tearing apart our hotel, could you answer me one question?"

"Fine!" Brackenreid snapped. "Go on."

"There wouldn't by any chance happen to be a Detective Murdoch among your number, would there?"

Murdoch, Crabtree, and Brackenreid shared a look.

"I take your reaction as a yes?"

"I am Detective Murdoch."

"Good," said the clerk. "I have a letter for you."

All three of them approached the front desk as the man scrounged around below. The other three constables that they had brought along were staying put by the entrance. After what felt like forever, he stood upright again, holding the envelope in his hand. Murdoch cautiously took it by the corner, hoping to avoid contaminating any finger marks. Though, it was highly unlikely that there were any (besides the hotel clerks) as the killer hadn't left any on the screwdriver. He held it up to the light to see if he could discern anything unsavoury within. There appeared to be something but he couldn't quite make it out because the envelope was too thick. He'd have no choice but to open it up outright.

"Do you have a letter opener I could use, sir?"

The clerk was already clutching one in his hand and now handed it to him.

"I must say, this is rather exciting! I've been wanting to know what's in there for quite awhile."

Brackenreid glared at him until his smile faltered and finally went away all together.

Murdoch carefully cut through the envelope to avoid damaging anything inside. As a consequence, it took many seconds to open it fully. He unfolded the paper and a key fell out into his hand, which he only barely managed to catch.

The other two leaned in on either side of him in order to read along. What was written on the paper was this: 'Good job, detective. You're doing quite well. I'm afraid the game isn't over yet. But cheer up, bucko, for things are about to get interesting!'

_As if they weren't already? _He dreaded what those last words meant.

Looking up from the letter, he said calmly to the clerk, "Who gave you this letter? Can you describe him for me?" The clerk seemed puzzled by what he had said. "What's the matter? Can't you tell me what he looks like?"

"No, sir."

"And _why_ the bloody hell not?" yelled Brackenreid.

"_Because_ it was a _woman_ who gave me that letter."

"What do you mean it was a _woman_?" said Brackenreid, loudly.

"What do you _think_ it means?" said the clerk hotly.

"Don't get _snippy_ with me!" barked Brackenreid, looking like he was about to knock him out.

"Sirs," said Crabtree, "this isn't helping anything."

Brackenreid made a non-committal grunt and fell silent. The clerk had a smug grin across his face.

"Now, sir," Murdoch said. "Can you please describe the woman who gave you this letter?"

"Yes," he said. "I remember quite well because she was acting so strangely."

"Strange how?" said Murdoch.

"She seemed to be rather withdrawn. Almost like she wasn't aware of what she was doing."

"I see. And what did she look like?"

"She was a pretty sort of girl. She had shoulder length brown hair, very curly. Her eyes were a piercing blue. And she had a mole just above her left eyebrow."

The three of them shared a look again. The clerk had just described the first victim.

_What is going on here? _

"Was she staying here?" asked Murdoch. This hadn't come up in their investigation. No one had known her whereabouts in the hours leading up to her murder.

"Yes, as a matter of fact she was. She didn't stay very long though. Why? What's so important about her?"

"She was murdered six days ago," replied Murdoch.

"Oh dear," he said, the blood draining from his face, "how dreadful."

Murdoch held the key up to the hotel clerk. "Does this belong to the Gladstone?"

He appeared to be shocked by it. "Why, yes, detective, it certainly does. I've been looking for it for the past week. I've been forced to use the spare this whole time. The woman you're referring to was staying in that room."

"Which _room_, you tosser?" growled Brackenreid.

The clerk turned his head sideways and started to sulk. Before Murdoch or Crabtree could do anything, the inspector grabbed him by his coat collar until they were almost nose to nose.

"Which room, you git?" hissed Brackenreid menacingly.

Murdoch had a strong sense that he already knew the answer to that question. And his suspicions were confirmed when the clerk answered.

"Room 9." he squeaked.

* * *

It took longer than expected to discover what was left for them. There was another envelope taped to the backside of the dresser. On it was another location. But this one was different in the respect that it gave a very specific address. It was clearly the location of a building of some sort. They all stared at it in wonder. The next location was in France.

"How the bloody hell are we supposed to go _there_ next!" exclaimed Brackenreid.

Murdoch ignored him and allowed himself to be swallowed up into his own innermost thoughts. He refused to believe that the killer had all of a sudden decided to stop giving them meaningful clues, for he appeared to be immensely enjoying this game they were playing. Surely he didn't want it to end? So what did it mean? Then he thought he knew the answer.

"I don't think we're supposed to go there," he told the other two.

"Then what _are _we supposed to do?" asked Brackenreid

"I think we have to investigate this location from afar. We need to dig up whatever we can about what the building is used for, as well as it's history. Hopefully that will lead to more clues."

"And then what?" shouted Brackenreid. "Are we supposed to just chase clue after clue until this maniac decides he's had enough fun and ships out across the sea to God knows where?"

"It's like the detective said before," said Crabtree, "do we really have a choice?"

Brackenreid snarled and stomped out of the room.

* * *

Back at the station house, Murdoch wanted to confirm that there were definitely no additional finger marks on the first envelope. He had made sure to take the clerks finger marks before they left the hotel, and the finger marks of the first victim were already cataloged and ready for use. After revealing all of them with a little powder, he diligently worked his way through them, the magnifying glass aiding in his endeavor. His brow furrowed deeper and deeper as he laboured, until he was scowling at the end of his comparisons. _All _of the finger marks belonged to the clerk! There weren't even any partials to indicate that anyone else had handled it. They had been duped!


	6. Flames of Perdition

When they arrived at the hotel again, it was as he'd feared. The clerk was no longer there. He quickly asked the manager for the clerks home address. The manager gave it to him and they were on their way, though he was very doubtful that they'd find him there.

* * *

Brackenreid kicked the door down to the clerks residence and found the place in disarray. There was no one there. They decided to examine the area anyways.

Crabtree went over to the far side of the room where there was a window overlooking the street below. After a few seconds he exclaimed, "Sirs, I think I see him just outside!"

All three of them sprinted back down the steps to the main floor and hurried back outside. There was a man carrying a large suitcase in the distance, moving rapidly and frequently checking behind him. They started running after him. When he saw them, he dropped the suitcase and began sprinting as fast as he could. He started taking corners in an effort to lose them. Luckily for them, he wasn't in very good shape and quickly had to slow his pace. Therefore, before long, they had almost caught up to him, Crabtree in the lead as he was the most fit and Murdoch falling to the back as he was still not one hundred percent better. The clerk looked behind himself again and tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. He tumbled to the ground. He scrambled back to his feet and attempted to continue fleeing, but Crabtree leapt into the air and knocked him over. Crabtree remained sitting on his back (the clerk squirming frantically) until the other two caught up.

"What took you two so long?" he asked smiling.

* * *

In the interrogation room, the clerk (one David Blake) was sweating profusely under the accusing stare of Brackenreid, for he had insisted on conducting the interview himself. Even though Murdoch didn't think this was wise, (given the inspectors inability to control himself around David), he said nothing. Instead he watched silently through the glass outside with Crabtree beside him.

"Why did you do it?" Brackenreid snarled from across the room (he was far too riled up to sit). "What kind of sick bastard are you anyways?"

"As I've b-been trying to tell you, inspector," said Blake nervously, "you've g-got the wrong m-man!"

"Oh really?" he shouted. "And why the bloody hell would I believe _that_? Why were you fleeing if you're so goddamn innocent!"

"I-I forgot until j-just recently that the young lady had been w-wearing gloves when she gave it to me. I kn-knew what you'd th-think, so I decided to l-leave as soon as p-p-possible!"

"Really?" bellowed the inspector and making Blake flinch. "That's the best you've got! You seemed to remember what she looked like well enough! I find it hard to believe that you'd forget a detail like that! For all I know, you killed her and then pretended that she gave you the letter herself!"

"I swear it w-wasn't m-me!" he yelped.

"I've had enough of your bloody lies!" he yelled. Brackenreid charged across the room and grabbed him by the throat. "Tell me the truth!"

Murdoch and Crabtree rushed into the room and tried to pull the inspector off Blake. Even with their combined strength, it was quite the struggle. Finally they succeeded before Blake passed out from lack of oxygen. Nevertheless, he collapsed in a heap on the floor and started coughing loudly. When he had regained his breath, he began crying instead. This had the effect of enraging Brackenreid again and Murdoch hollered for help in controlling the inspector. A third constable came in and together they dragged him out of the interrogation room. Crabtree closed the door on the way out so Blake's sobbing wouldn't bother Brackenreid anymore. Eventually he calmed down enough and they were able to release him. He shrugged their hands off him and stormed off.

"What do you think, sir?" asked Crabtree. "Do you think it's him?"

"I don't know, George. He's not what I imagined he would be like."

"That makes two of us, sir. So now what do we do?"

Murdoch was silent for a moment and then said, "There's an easy way to determine if Blake is indeed our man."

"What's that?"

"All we have to do is compare his writing to the killers. If they don't match, he's not our man."

* * *

Murdoch entered the room with a paper and pen. Blake looked up from his spot on the floor and jumped to his feet.

"Finally!" he exclaimed. "Someone I can reason with! Your inspector is insane!"

"Please take a seat, Mr. Blake."

He did as he was told and stared at Murdoch expectantly. The detective sat down and laid the pen and paper before him.

"If you are indeed telling the truth," he said, "then your writing shouldn't match that of the killers."

Blake grabbed the pen and began scribbling furiously.

"Please stop, Mr. Blake," said Murdoch. "I didn't tell you what to write yet."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize. What do you want me to write?"

"I want you to write out the following words: job, detective, afraid, game, up, bucko, things and interesting."

Blake glanced up for a second and then wrote out the words, asking him to repeat a few of them that he had forgotten.

Murdoch picked up the piece of paper, rose from his chair and said, "Thank you, Mr. Blake. I need to compare this to the letter and then I will be back with my findings. I hope for your sake that they don't match."

* * *

Before he went to the inspector with his findings, he wanted to check something that he should have checked earlier. He contacted the Gladstone hotel and asked someone to check all the guests names for room nine from the last two weeks. The first victim's name was among them. So he _had_ been telling some kind of truth then, she _had _at least stayed there.

"It's not him, sir," said Murdoch.

Brackenreid scowled at him and shouted, "What do you _mean_? Of _course _it's him, he's a goddamn wanker! Don't tell me, you _believe_ his story, Murdoch?"

"I'm afraid that I do, sir."

"And _why_ the bloody hell is that?"

"His writing doesn't match the killers."

"He changed it," yelled the inspector, "that's all! He just wrote the letters differently!"

"You don't understand, sir. His writing is vastly different than the letters. There aren't any similar characteristics between them. It's extremely hard to change ones writing _that_ much."

"Explain." he said grumpily.

"We're so in-tuned to a specific way of handling a writing instrument - for instance, the weight we put on it and the angle that we use - that it would be virtually impossible for him to fake it _that_ much. We subconsciously use the above mentioned things, whether we mean to or not."

"He could be a master forger. He's skilled enough at other things."

"I don't think this is the case, though, sir. Furthermore, if he really is the killer, why then, all of a sudden, is he making mistakes? Surely if he had been planning this for a long time, he would have left much more quickly than he did, and he definitely wouldn't have gone to a location that he knew he could be discovered in easily. Besides which, we haven't finished playing the game yet."

"He's killed countless people and you think that everything he does is going to make perfect _sense_? You expect this lunatic to behave _rationally_, Murdoch?"

"In so far as much as this game goes, I do."

"I don't care what you think, Murdoch, I'm _not _releasing him!"

"We have no evidence to hold him though, sir."

"He knew what the first victim looked like for crying out loud!"

"Yes, but she _was_ staying there. I just checked, so there's no doubt about it. She _could_ have been wearing gloves, like he says."

"Fine!" he yelled. "But I'm putting someone on him to make sure that he doesn't go disappearing on us."

"I'd expect nothing less, sir. If you hadn't suggested it, I would have."

* * *

"You're free to go." said Murdoch

Blake looked elated at the news. "Oh thank you, detective! I knew I could count on you!"

"If you're smart, you won't go trying to run away again. That was a foolish thing to do."

"I know, I know," he responded, shaking his head. "What can I say? I freaked out."

Murdoch escorted him to the station house entrance. All the constables were eyeing him savagely, like they'd like nothing better than to rip his throat out. He was afraid that one of them might actually do it. They had been stretched to the breaking point this week and they still hadn't found the culprit. It was only a matter of time before someone snapped. Maybe he would have been better off in jail, after all?

* * *

While all of this had been going down, the rest of the constabulary had been continuing the search through whatever records they could get their hands on. So far, the trail had extended all the way down to Miami, reaching back about eight years. However, the killer had been just as good then as he was now and so hadn't made any mistakes and been suspected of any crimes yet. Therefore there were no names or sketches with which to compare to anyone currently in Toronto.

Having hit another dead end, it was time to resume the game. Murdoch needed to contact the French police. Luckily for him, he was fluent in their language, or things would have been much more difficult.

* * *

"I've just received a telegram back," he said as he entered his bosses office.

"And what do they have to say?" asked Brackenreid.

"That address is the location of a residence, sir, a mansion, in fact."

"How does this help us at all?"

"I asked the police to contact the current residents and get the history of the place from them."

"What did they say?"

"Apparently there was a horrible fire there about twenty years ago. Most of the building was destroyed. It's since been rebuilt."

"Get to the_ point_, Murdoch."

"Of course, sir," he said. "Almost the entire household was killed, a total of _nine_ people."

Brackenreid raised his eyebrows and said, "You don't think-"

"That's exactly what I think, sir." He smiled and said, "There was only one survivor, the eldest son. His name was Gabriel Langlois. Now I just need to contact his surviving relatives and ask them to send me a picture of him. We'll be able to decode it like the last one we received from Paris. It'll take some time but then we'll finally have a face to go along with the name."

Brackenreid had listened silently this whole time but by the end of Murdoch's little speech, he spoke up. "Somethings not right, here, Murdoch. Why would he point directly to himself? Why would he _want_ to get caught?"

"I thought about that as well, sir. I believe that he didn't realize it would be possible to positively identify himself with an actual picture."

The inspector thought about that for a moment and then said, "No, that's not right. You said it yourself. He's too smart to make mistakes like that. Something else is going on here."

"What do you think, sir?" he asked politely. "That the fire destroyed _all _pictures of him? Surely his relatives would have at least one of them _somewhere_. Or do you think that he's changed his name since and so we still won't be able to identify him short of finding him face to face? Or do you think Monsieur Langlois, _isn't_ him at all?"

"I don't know, Murdoch, I just don't know. But somethings off."


	7. Strange Times

It had been surprisingly easy to track down Monsieur Langlois's relatives, and they had agreed to send Murdoch a picture of their cousin via the code that Murdoch had devised about a year ago. It was being transmitted as they spoke. Once it came in, all they'd have to do was paint in the corresponding shades to each sector. He helped Crabtree and Higgins prepare the big white board up properly so that they'd be able to start as soon as the transmission was finished coming through. Then it would be many grueling hours of filling in minuscule squares, but by the end of it, they'd finally know the killers face. At least, he hoped they would. There was still the possibility that Monsieur Langlois was _not_ their man and that this was just going to lead to some other person they'd have to try and track down; like there were a never ending cascade of clues. But he couldn't believe this; didn't want to believe this. There _had_ to be an end in sight, there just _had_ to be.

* * *

While Crabtree and Higgins began painting in the squares, Murdoch decided to pay another visit to the morgue so that he could fill Julia in on their progress with the case. When he entered the building, he came face to face with Emily.

She smirked at him and said, "She's all yours, detective. We haven't had much to do recently, so I decided to go home early today. I thought that I deserved the break. You better hurry though because I think she was planning on leaving soon herself."

She walked away without waiting for a response. He took her advice and advanced into the main room rapidly. Most of the bodies had been removed, and as a result, he could breathe freely for the first time there since his return from the Yukon. He quickly spotted Julia at her desk reading a book. At least, she was trying to, but her eyes kept drooping and as a result the book was beginning to fall out of her hand. When it hit the ground, with a resounding thud, she was instantly awakened. It was at this point that she noticed Murdoch. Smiling sleepily, she stood up and went over to him.

"Detective," she mumbled, "please tell me that there aren't any more bodies."

"As far as I know, doctor, there aren't."

"So then, how can I help you right now?"

"Oh," he said smiling, "I just wanted to inform you that I believe we are very close to catching the killer."

All her sleepiness vanished and she said, "Really? Why that's wonderful news! Do you know his name?"

"Gabriel Langlois."

"A French man? I would never have guessed."

"Me neither. For whatever reason, most of these psychopaths seem to originate in London. It must have something to do with the condition of the area. Maybe the rampant poverty just brings out the worst in people there, more so than anywhere else."

"Maybe," she said. It was silent for a moment and then with eyes averted, "William, I have to tell you something. I've been meaning to for awhile but just haven't gotten around to it."

He didn't like where this was going, her tone was _not _cheerful.

All he said was, "Oh? What is it, Julia?"

"After this case is over, I'm going to be leaving." His heart lurched horribly at her words. "Don't worry though, Dr. Grace is more than capable of taking over for me."

He couldn't find the right words, so all he said was, "Why?"

Still not looking at him she said, "You know why. We made our decisions, William. It's not appropriate for me to be working so closely with you anymore. I had hoped to be re-situated before you got back but unfortunately that didn't quite work out as planned. And then this case hit and I had to help Dr. Grace out, so my leaving was forestalled even longer. But if it is as you say, and the case is almost closed, then I will be going as soon as it is."

Again, virtually speechless, he said, "Don't go."

She looked up now, for the first time, and caught his eye. He would wonder later if what happened next was mostly the result of their extreme tiredness from working this case. Maybe it had caused their fuses to be much shorter than usual, for they usually held their emotions in much better than that.

She appeared intrigued by his words for the briefest of moments and then said furiously, "How can you ask me _that_, William? _You_ have _no_ right to! _You're_ the one who didn't come! _You _had all the power to stop me but you _didn't_! _You_ made your choice and _I _made _mine_ and that's _all_ there is to say about _that_!"

Now it was his turn to get angry and accusatory. How could she be so unfair to him?

"_I'm_ not the one who ran off to _Buffalo_ after dropping a _huge _bombshell on _your _head! _You_ didn't give _me_ a chance to collect my _thoughts_! _You_ just up and _left_! _I_ was going to propose and _you_ didn't give me a chance _to_! _You_ went and got engaged immediately to the next man who paid you the _slightest_ amount of attention! How _could_ you do it, Julia! You can't possibly love _him_!"

"How _dare_ you!" she shrieked. "_You_ can't possibly know what I _feel_! _You're_ the most emotionally closed off person that I've _ever_ met! What do _you _know about _love_?"

The next thing he knew, they were in each others arms, mashing lips together furiously and breathing heavily. He put his hand on her left breast and squeezed it playfully. "Oh, William," she moaned as he began necking her rapidly but softly. Then he began unbuttoning her blouse and-

"Well!" she screamed, "Are you going to answer me? Or are you just going to stand there with a stupid grin on your face?"

He was so confused with what was going on that he didn't respond.

"That's what I thought!"

Then she stormed out of the morgue leaving him completely baffled.

* * *

Seven hours later, they were three quarters of the way finished painting the image. It had gone much faster than the last time because Crabtree and Higgins had a much better idea of what they were doing. As well, Murdoch had helped them when he came back from the morgue. It would have been even faster than this but Higgins had to be removed at hour five. He had almost passed out from standing so long (which was only an issue since he hadn't slept in several days) and he almost ruined the image with a massive brush stroke. If he had, they would have had to have started all over again. Luckily, Crabtree had noticed in time and pulled him away from the picture before it was too late. Higgins was now sleeping soundly at his desk.

Now all that remained was the mouth; then they would finally be done. After another hour they were. They took a moment to stretch out their limbs and rub their eyes and then retreated a few steps back to admire their handiwork and get a better look at it (it was hard to see any particular detail when they had been standing so close to it for so long; all those greys and blacks just blended together into one big mass).

Crabtree and Murdoch gazed at it for a few seconds and then their jaws dropped. They stared at the image in horror. Right then Brackenreid came in to see how they were getting along. He took one look at them and then turned his attention to the picture. His jaw dropped as well. "Bloody hell," he said weakly. "It's Darcy."

* * *

Murdoch jumped on his bike and began peddling furiously in the direction of the Garland residence (of course, as he had previously learned, this _wasn't_ the proper name for it). Brackenreid had started to inform the station about the current situation. While he had been doing this, Murdoch had looked up the address, for he had never been there before. When things began to get hectic, he slunk out the back. They eventually noticed his absence as they had had a feeling that he might try to do something stupid and so had tried to keep a close eye on him. Unfortunately, they had failed. And so it was, that Crabtree had hopped onto his own bike and was chasing after him, leaving Brackenreid behind to organize the fire (and man) power issue as quickly as possible, before Murdoch walked right into a trap.

* * *

At eleven minutes to midnight, he arrived. He had pedaled so hard that he was severely winded by the time he dumped his bike on the grass at the front of their house. He would have taken a moment to catch his breath except he knew Crabtree was likely behind him, maybe by only a matter of seconds. So he staggered on forwards toward the entrance, clutching his side where a painful stitch had just begun.

When he reached the door, there was a familiar looking envelope taped there. He tore it open and struggled to read what it said in the moonlight.

'Meet me in the barn. Come alone or she dies.'

He looked around in all directions and eventually discerned it in the distance, to the west, at about half a mile from his current location. After tearing the note up, he hurried back to his bike as quickly as he could, and with a great determination of will, forced himself to start peddling vigorously again, even though the effort caused his lungs (and limbs) to sear painfully.

Within a short while, he dropped his bike in front of the barn, pulled out his gun (the one smart thing he had done so far), opened the door and walked inside.

It was much more brightly lit than he was expecting, so much so, that he was temporarily blinded after squinting in the moonlight for so long. The source of this illumination was a row of lanterns hanging on either side of the barn's structure. This only had his attention for a split second before it was wholly diverted to the scene in the center of the barn. All of his exhaustion just washed away at the sight. Julia was sitting in a high back wooden chair, hands in her lap and staring directly ahead, at him. Strangely, she didn't make the slightest sound at his arrival. In fact, she didn't even appear to register his existence.

Murdoch began to go to her when a voice said, "Not so fast, detective. I'd like you to stay where you are, please."

He swiveled towards the sound, aiming his gun as he did so. Darcy emerged from behind a large beam and started to walk over to Julia. Apparently he was completely unarmed.

"You stay away from her, you monster!" he shouted. When Darcy didn't listen, he yelled, "I'll shoot you right now if you keep moving!"

This made him stop. Darcy cocked his head in his direction, smirked and said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, detective."

Then he continued moving until he was standing directly behind Julia. He gripped the top of the seat and stared at Murdoch.

"What did you _do_ to her?" screamed Murdoch.

"Oh, don't worry, detective, it's nothing that can't be undone." Here he smirked at him again and said, "Provided nothing happens to me, that is. I'd appreciate it if you'd lower your weapon now. I hate having a gun pointed in my face. It makes me angry. And you don't want me to get angry."

Murdoch had no idea what would happen if he did as Darcy said but was more afraid of what would happen if he didn't, so he complied.

"You might as well go ahead and holster it. You won't be needing it."

Again, he did as he was told.

"Good boy," Darcy said, mockingly. Then in a more civilized tone said, "I bet you're wondering why you're here." Murdoch didn't respond but he continued as if he had. "It's quite simple really. We're going to finish our game now. But first, I believe a short history lesson is in order.

"You see, detective, I wasn't always this way. No, I was a good little French boy at one point. Unfortunately, my daddy went and killed my mommy right in front of me, and that didn't seem to agree with me too well for some reason." He smiled widely here. "Of course, he didn't see me, or he would have finished me off right then and there.

"Strangely, ever since that moment, I hated everything about him. And since he was a French man,-my mother being a bilingual American- I wanted to learn English and rid myself of the disgusting accent as fast as I could. It pained me greatly that this task took so many years of my life to accomplish. Happily, I eventually succeeded.

"When I turned twenty-one I started a fire in our house. Everyone died. As a consequence, I inherited all the money. Don't worry, I made sure to torture the bastard a bit before I set the blaze. I knew exactly how to maximize his pain as I had purposely studied human anatomy in college for that very reason.

"Then I left home, with our entire fortune and began traveling the world. Everything was so _boring_ though, so I made it interesting. People didn't seem to appreciate what I was doing and as a result I was almost caught a few times. So I wised up and learned to be more discreet in my actions. As well, every place I went to, that I was planning on killing in, I would first get married. For who would suspect the well adjusted husband as the serial killer that was terrorizing the area. No one.

"Of course, once I was done with that place, I had no need for my new blushing bride. So I'd arrange for an accident to befall her. Then after an appropriate grieving period, I would move on to another location. I'd stay in this place for a year or so to cool down before I'd move on to the next place, and change my identity. It's a simple matter when you're as rich as I am. Then I'd start all over.

"None of the detectives anywhere in Europe were any fun though, so I traveled to America, where my dear old mum had come from. To my dismay, they were just as dimwitted as all the other ones. I made my way up the continent, until I heard of a promising challenge. You.

"You had successfully taken down a serial killer by the name of Harland Orgill. I thought, if you could catch _him_, maybe you'd be fun to play with. I decided to give you some time to regain your wits so that you'd be in tip-top form. In the meantime, I had some fun in Philadelphia. My next stop was Buffalo.

"During my cooling off period, I took a job as a doctor at the Children's hospital because I love children so much. And no, detective, not in that way. Children are the only innocents in life, that is, before they are traumatized. I could relate to all these poor kids; having to deal with death at such a young age is difficult. I offered what counsel I could.

"I hadn't been there for long before Julia showed up. We got to talking one day, about you, or rather a case you had recently solved, and to my amazement, it turned out that this woman actually _knew_ you, had even _worked_ with you for years. And I suspected, had _loved _you for years.

"I couldn't believe my luck. I immediately began wooing her. It was a simple matter. She was heartbroken over you, poor thing. Soon we were engaged. It was only a matter of time before she'd want to introduce me to her family. Then I would be in Toronto, where you were.

"Once she was there, I knew it would be easy enough to get her to stay. She clearly missed you too much not to do so. After the wedding, I was going to commence the festivities. However, I learned soon enough that you had left. This in itself didn't bother me too much, no, it was the fact that you stayed away so long that did. That was a terribly trying time for me. I was afraid that I would lose my patience and take my anger out on my darling wife." He stroked her cheek a few times. "Luckily for you, I didn't, or we wouldn't be here right now.

"Finally, you returned. I had been keeping tabs on your movements so I could be sure to start as soon as you got back. I began making preparations again. The night before you went back to work, I started the game. It wasn't until the next evening I learned from Julia that you had taken ill. I was very distraught by this occurrence. After waiting all this time, you almost ruined everything. For where was the fun if you were no where to be found?

"Once I start killing, I find it hard to stop. That is, until I reach the number nine. Must have something to do with the fire. So I continued with the game, hoping for you to return before the end. Thankfully, you obliged me. If you hadn't, I'm sure no one would have figured it out and the game would have ended before it had a chance to begin.

"You had a certain time limit to solve my identity. If you hadn't figured it out by then, I would know that you hadn't been trying hard enough. And I _hate _slackers. In that event, I was just going to kill Julia outright. You've actually already exceeded that time limit. However, being the fair minded man that I am, I decided to give you a little longer because you had been sick for so long. Who knows? Maybe the illness had dulled your mind. I didn't want to win that way.

"So here we are, detective. Let the final round commence. You now have a choice before you." He smiled mischievously and said, "You can either take me in. _Or_ you can let me leave right now and learn how to undo what I've done to your beloved Julia."


	8. And Presto!

Murdoch didn't know what to say or do, so all he did was gawk at Darcy.

His smile widened and he said, "I see I've left you quite speechless, detective. I tend to have that effect on people."

Finally he found his voice. "How are you going to tell me if you're _gone_?" Murdoch asked.

"I'll contact you by telephone."

"Why would I_ trust_ you?" he cried.

"I assure you, detective, I will. You have my word."

"What good is that?" he yelled. "You're a serial killer for crying out loud!"

"I'm hurt at your lack of faith," Darcy said smirking. "Oh, I _suppose _I can explain the situation a little more for you, so that you can make a more informed decision. You see, detective, right now, Julia is deeply hypnotized; another skill I picked up on my travels. If she is physically forced out of it, she will lose her _entire_ memory. The only way you can make her return to normal is if _I _speak a specific phrase. I'm afraid that the _only_ place in which that lies is here." He tapped the side of his head. "So you really don't want to kill me."

"I can just _force_ you to speak the phrase now and then take you in!"

"No, you can't, detective. I'll never tell." He said the last in a sing-song voice.

"Don't be so sure about that!"

Murdoch started to charge at him, when Darcy retrieved a hidden dagger from his sleeve and placed the point of the blade against his _own_ temple. He stopped in his tracks.

"I did tell you to stay right there, detective. Maybe this will help give you incentive."

_He's completely and utterly insane!_

"The whole things a big lie!" he shouted. "She can probably be snapped out of it without your damn phrase! And I highly doubt she'd lose her _entire_ memory!"

"Are you willing to take that risk, detective? By all means, try to wake her up."

Still with the blade pressed to his skull, he stepped back a ways from Julia, as if making way for Murdoch. He didn't move though.

"That's what I thought. So what will it be, detective? Should I stay or should I go?" Then he returned to where Julia was and replaced the blade into its hiding spot. Several minutes passed in a silent matter. "Time is ticking by, detective and I'm getting awfully _bored._ You better hope the calvary doesn't find us before you reach a decision. You never know what might happen to me once they do." Another minute passed by in silence. "Okay, detective, I really _must_ insist that you make up your mind right _now_. Otherwise I'll just leave and _not_ call you."

"You know I can't let you go!" Murdoch exclaimed.

"Is that your decision then? You're going to take me in?"

"Yes!" he screamed and then collapsed to the ground, head in hands and began to sob.

"Now, now, detective, it's not as bad as all that. I'm the one who should be disappointed."

Murdoch looked up to see Darcy smiling again. He was so infuriated by this that he jumped up, ran over to him and tackled him to the ground. Then he began punching him in the face. He made no effort to defend himself.

"Tell me what it _is_, you bastard!"

In response, Darcy began to laugh. This was the scene in which the others finally found them.

Crabtree pulled Murdoch off of him and Brackenreid handcuffed Darcy soon after; who had turned mute, with blood dripping into his eyes. Murdoch had a bad sense of deja vu when he saw this. The other constables remained at the entrance to the barn, with guns at the ready, just in case.

"What's wrong with the doctor, sir?" asked Crabtree.

He went over to examine her more closely. He was about to start shaking her when Murdoch finally came to his senses. "Stop, George!"

Crabtree looked up and gave him a puzzled expression. "Why, what's the matter, sir?"

"She's been hypnotized! She can't be forced out of it or she could lose her entire memory!"

Brackenreid and Crabtree shared a look.

"You don't really believe that, do you, me old mucker?" Brackenreid asked gently.

"No, of course not!" he exclaimed, "but I can't risk it. I know very little about hypnosis. I never thought it was even _real_ but clearly it _is_!"

"So how do we get her out of it safely, sir?" inquired Crabtree.

"He has to speak a certain phrase and then she'll be fine."

"Is that so?" muttered Brackenreid. Then he boxed Darcy in the ear. "Well, what is it then, you piece of garbage?" Darcy refused to respond, so he punched him again. "Come on now, I'm not in the mood to be trifled with."

"There's no point, sir," said Murdoch despairingly. "He's not going to tell you. He gave me a choice. And I took the moral one."

Would he be forever repenting his one sin?

Then he remembered something. "Sir, he's got a dagger in his sleeve!" It had completely escaped his mind until then.

It was too late, by the time Brackenreid tried to get it from him, Darcy already had it in his hand. He slashed the inner side of his left thigh, severing a major artery. The crimson dagger fell out of his hand and then he followed it to the ground. Murdoch's blood ran cold as he watched him bleed out rapidly.

"You have to do something!" he screamed frantically, as he rushed over to where he lay.

Murdoch took off his jacket and ripped off the sleeve. He then wrapped it above the injury, trying to make a tourniquet. It didn't work very well though because the cut was too high up on the limb and he had already lost a large amount of blood. So he grabbed the rest of his jacket, wadded it up and pressed it firmly against the wound. It was quickly getting soaked in blood.

"What's the phrase?" he yelled. "Tell me!"

Darcy looked at him one last time, eyes full of amusement. He died with a smile on his lips.

"Nooooooooooo!"

* * *

For the first time now, Murdoch went over to her. He knelt down and took her hands in his. They were as limp as spaghetti and her eyes were vacant and unseeing. The sight of her up close like this, made him tear up. Then he put his head in her lap and began to sob again. The others averted their gaze. They gave him a few minutes and then Crabtree came over and tried to get him to leave.

"We can't do anything for her right now, sir," he said.

"I'm not going anywhere, George!" Murdoch said stubbornly.

"Okay, Murdoch," said Brackenreid, "you can stay here with Crabtree. The rest of us will escort this psychopathic bastard's body back to the precinct."

Before they left, he thought of something. "Sir," said Murdoch, "could you send a doctor out here?"

He was clinging on to the hope that Darcy had been lying and it was something else altogether that was ailing Julia. Something that could be fixed with more conventional means.

"Of course," responded Brackenreid softly, "whatever you need, me old mucker."

* * *

The doctor finished examining Julia and then began to fill Murdoch in on his findings.

"Her pupils are unresponsive and her breathing is quite slow but other than that, there doesn't appear to be anything wrong with her. It's almost like she's in a coma. You say that she was hypnotized?"

"That's correct, sir," replied Murdoch. He had regained a measure of dignity in the interim between Brackenreid leaving and the doctor arriving.

"Fascinating."

Murdoch didn't think so but he refrained from striking the man. Crabtree could tell that Murdoch wasn't very happy with this comment and decided to keep the conversation going in order to avoid a scuffle.

"Sir," he said, "What can you do for her? Will she actually lose her memory if we forced her out of it?"

"As to that, young man, I have no idea. I've never dealt with a hypnotized patient before. What you need is a specialist. A psychiatrist or a mystic or _something_. I'm afraid I can't be of any more help _here_. I would however, be willing to test her more, back at my practice. I can't run any blood tests or anything out here. For all we know, she could be suffering from a paralytic of some sort."

"You can't move her," said Murdoch. "I don't know what will happen if you try to."

"I'm sorry, detective but I really must insist on this. We can't just _leave_ her out here!"

Murdoch looked so dangerous that the doctor quailed under his stare.

"Fine, have it your way, sir, but know that this is against doctors orders."

* * *

Crabtree wouldn't leave him and Murdoch wouldn't leave her, so they all remained in the barn until morning. Crabtree had climbed up into the loft to sleep on the hay, he was snoring soundly. Murdoch had remained by Julia's side, head in her lap, and was eventually lulled into a half slumber.

For once he had a dreamless sleep, something that he was extremely grateful for. Unfortunately, when he awoke, it was to a recurring nightmare; the situation was very much the same as it had been the night before. On top of this, he was very stiff and sore from kneeling in that position for so many hours. With great effort, he stood up and began stretching out his limbs. Suddenly his back spasmed (something he attributed just as much from being on his feet for so many hours, as much as being hunched over), and he fell over and on to his side roughly. He stayed in that position for several seconds until the pain subsided. When he was about to get back up, he noticed something under the seat of the chair. It was another envelope!

He eagerly reached under and ripped it free from the tape. Still on the ground, he opened it up and read what it said. A huge smile crossed his face.

'Detective,

Why did I write this, you may ask? Think of it as my backup plan. You see, I have known that I was dieing for the last couple of years. I decided to have one last hurrah before the end. You appeared to be my best bet. And you didn't disappoint. I'm sure that I went out with a bang. So thank you for that. As well, I figured someone should learn my story before I was gone. It would have been a tragedy if no one ever knew. Again, you seemed to be a good candidate. So thank you for listening to my tale of woe.

As to the hypnosis issue, I imagine you'll be pleased to learn that there _is _still a solution to that. Several days ago, I broke into your office and left a recording of the phrase on that nifty little device of yours. Now all you have to do is play it back for her and she'll be right as rain. I was never going to leave you hanging, detective. I'm not a complete monster. If you had let me go, I _would_ have called you to tell you the same thing. And now, I assume you'll be rushing back to the station house so that you can save your beloved Julia. I won't keep you any longer.'

GL

* * *

After he had brought Julia out of her comatose state, she had been extremely bewildered, as was to be expected. The last thing she could recall was coming home from work and going to bed early. Murdoch dreaded having to inform her that not only was her husband dead, by his own hand no less, but that he had been possibly the most devious and successful serial killer in the history of the world. Well, he wouldn't phrase it _quite_ like that when he _did _eventually tell her.

Murdoch would never know if Julia had _really_ been in any danger of losing her memories. _Or_ if his illness had actually helped to prevent her premature death. And for that matter, what had _caused_ his illness in the first place. Was it the hand of God? Intervening on his behalf so that they could finally be together? Or something far more earthbound? And in the end, it didn't matter. What mattered was that she was back to normal again, alive and well and safe from yet another deranged serial killer. He hoped that she would never have to deal with another one for as long as she lived. The same thing went for him. They were utterly exhausting. He weeped for the future of humanity if this was what lay ahead in ever increasing numbers.

So it looked like Dr. Grace had been right all along. He _had_ wanted to be caught. But this time it had been for a different reason. This time he had more of a practical reasoning for it, if practical was the right word for it. Darcy's story had affected him far more than he was expecting. It was easy to draw certain parallels between their lives. For a long time, he had thought his _own_ father had killed his mother. However, he hadn't turned into a killer because of this. Who knows though? Things could have been very different...

* * *

Epilogue

"So tell me, Julia, are you willing to try this one last time?"

"That depends, William, what on earth are you talking about?"

They smiled at each other and then held hands as they strolled through the park. It was a glorious day. Not because the weather was particularly nice (in fact it was quite gloomy out) but rather because they were there together, about to resume their journey once more (and he prayed, for the last time). He couldn't wait to get started.


End file.
